Sherpunzel, Sherpunzel, Let Down Your Hair
by Ariela Winster
Summary: "If you can make it up to the window, I will allow you to stay here for tonight." John rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had already began to drizzle, meaning the vines climbing the tower were going to be slippery. Oh well, John Hamish Watson loved a challenge. Tangled/Rapunzel/What-the-hell-is-this-shit? AU
1. Chapter 1

**What. is. _Shaame? _I certainly wouldn't know (apparently).**

**Here you go. My lovely attempt at blocking out the Reichenfeels. (beware, there is more insanity to come after this. Be expecting something along the lines of Ke$ha)**

**Also, I had every intention of making the beginning even remotely serious. But then the first sentence ended up there and all hope was lost.**

**Not Brit-picked (does it matter in this AU? 'Cause I honestly don't know if it does...)  
It's also un-beta-ed, so prepare for a few mistakes...**

**Also, not afraid to admit I'm not one of the brilliant fans who can easily throw out fancy words and explain scientific things and make it look like nothing...**

**Summary: "If you can make it up to the window, I will allow you to stay here for tonight." John rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had already began to drizzle, meaning the vines climbing the tower were going to be slippery. Oh well, John Hamish Watson loved a challenge. Tangled/Rapunzel/What-the-bloody-hell-is-this-shit? AU**

One day, in magical kingdom of tall, dark and handsomes/beautifuls, a gorgeous, cat-eyed, pale queen gave birth to a high-cheek boned, wiry God of a king's son. This son was named Sherlock Holmes, and all the people in the kingdom absolutely adored the precious baby. They loved him so much that they all came together and captured a witch that lived nearby to serve the baby for all his life, granting every wish the tiny mouth muttered.

The witch's name was Mycroft, and little did the people know that he was the most dangerous of all the magic folk in the land, unwittingly placing their precious prince in peril. Mycroft was in such a rage over being made prisoner to such pitiful _non-magic_ folk that two months, three days, and twelve minutes after his capture he began to plan a way to get back at the king and queen, and he had the perfect idea in mind.

Sherlock was special, and not just because of his astounding beauty and unreasonably high level of cute, but because his hair contained all the answers to your questions (and could also keep you young forever. Minor detail.). Mycroft had already attempted to only take one piece of hair, but found that once the hair was cut, it lost all it's magical quality and faded to a dark brown-bordering-on-black color. Mycroft, realizing he would be found out about, used a quick spell to turn it back to its original strawberry blonde, not willing to be caught and burned alive just because he gave the kid a haircut.

After discovering that he would need the hair in contact with its source, Mycroft knew what he had to do. He has always been good with kidnapping people.

So, two months, three days, and twenty-four minutes later, Mycroft was riding away on a stolen horse with a stolen baby to a tower hidden deep in the forests, and covered in wards to keep it, and its occupants, hidden.

Dawn was just breaking as Mycroft reached the tall cylinder with only one window high up, a mere three feet wide and six and one half feet tall, and one door (that he would later destroy to keep his newly acquired charge inside). Having nothing better to do with it, Mycroft transformed the horse into a tiny hedgehog and carried it up with them up to the only room at the top, containing that lonely window. He settled the baby into a crib and stared down at it. For the next six years he'd be forced to practically live there due to Sherlock being so young, but once Sherlock insists he is old enough to stay by himself at the age of twelve Mycroft happily leaves the young genius (for he truly had become one, what with all the tests and questions). Mycroft only pays him visits when he needs a little freshening to the wrinkles appearing or when he is in need of knowledge, and to feed the boy and his hedgehog of course.

**Twat**

"Let's _go._ Move faster, you fat-" John was interrupted in insulting his poor horse as said poor horse suddenly stopped and bucked him off. Groaning, John got up and glared daggers at the four-legged demon.

"Look, Harry, I'm sorry for calling you "fat", but you really are putting on the pounds." He struggled to remount the stubborn mare as he heard royal guards getting closer. "Now, unless you want to be the King's next meal, I suggest we move onward at a faster pace."

The galloped, ran, and even did a bit of hiding until they were sure they were safe enough to slow to a trot (and for Harry to remove her rider once again, so that he was walking alongside her). John was picking through his spoils when a sudden shadow covered him, and, looking up, he saw the tallest tower he's ever seen with the weirdest blonde thing sticking out the window.

"Hello? Anyone up there?" He called out. It took a moment, but the pale yellow thing shot inside the open window, and was quickly replaced by a man(?)'s face.

"What do you want?" John was taken aback that someone was actually up there, since there was no obvious way up into the brick building. And the fact that it was clearly a man with long locks of blonde hair, which clashed terribly with the rich baritone by the way.

"Uh, nothing. Just a traveller looking for a place to rest for the night." He called out, hoping he actually could stay there. A storm was rolling in and who knew how far off the next town or village was that wouldn't recognize his face and chase him away with sharp objects and fire. The man was silent for a moment before nodding.

"If you can make it up to the window, I will allow you to stay here for tonight." John pinched the bridge of his nose. It had already begun to drizzle, meaning the vines climbing the tower were going to be slippery. Oh well, John Hamish Watson loved a challenge.

It took him an estimated twenty minutes before he reached the window and crawled through, barely catching himself from falling face first onto a... hedgehog. _Okay_. He looked up and saw the man (and the hair. _All the hair._) holding a knife in front of his face.

"Precautions." the man said, offering no smile, just a heated glare. John sat back and stuck his hands up in surrender.

"No need to worry about me attacking you." A lightening strike followed closely by a deep rumbling of thunder. "I'm just grateful you offered me shelter."

"I did not offer it to you. I merely provided it upon your request." He pulled the knife back, walked over to the fireplace and stabbed it into the mantle. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Informant. Unfortunately, this repulsive hair color and length are part of the job description. Once we escape I require that you to cut it all off for me. Also, to purchase some food for John." John stared at him, confused as to why this Sherlock character wanted to make sure he bought food for himself.

"Don't be daft, obviously John is my hedgehog, but based off your reaction, you are also John." Sherlock let the little creature scuttle up his arm and nestle into his hair, gracefully placed on his shoulder. John snorted at the sight, and was rewarded with a sniff and a chin lifting the tiniest bit higher.

"Yes. John Watson, nice to meet you." John stuck out his hand in greeting. Sherlock merely stared.

"Hmm, for a criminal you are well-mannered." Sherlock wandered over to a large wardrobe, careful not to step on his hair. "If we are to actually escape, we'll have to do it now. I don't think my abductor would take too kindly to you being here in the morning." He shoved things meticulously in a sack (is that even possible?), and set it to the side before pulling a long dark jacket around his thin frame, expertly tying it off with a blue scarf around his neck to which John (the hedgehog, mind you) buried himself in for safety. Gently moving John (the human) to the side, he draped his hair over a hook just outside the window and waited for John to figure it out. Which he didn't.

Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock turned to his visitor.

"Really, John. Can't you figure out _anything_? Take hold of my hair and descend the wall until you have safely landed on the ground." John had a confused look on his face (one he did not know would essentially become his default setting around this strange man).

"You want me to slip down... using your hair?"

"That's what I said, John. It doesn't hurt, if that's what your worried about." Sherlock waited, and becoming nettled once again, he threatened "John, if you don't climb down my hair right now I will throw you out the window, and don't think I can't. I've spent all my life in this tower, and have found a few rather violent ways to pass the time."

John scurried out the window pretty fucking fast after that.

Next was Sherlock's turn and, after taking a deep breath, he jumped and let himself glide down, surprised that John was there to help steady him when he landed.

"There, now that we're successfully outside in a thunderstorm, where do you propose we go?" John said, attempting to coax Harriet out from under a giant rock where she was quite content.

"I haven't the slightest idea. I'm the one who's been locked in a tower his whole life, remember?" Sherlock went over and sat beside John's chestnut colored companion. John and Sherlock met eyes and burst into a fit of giggles over that.

"So, I'm your knight in shining armor, then, eh?" John chuckled, finally getting the damned horse out into the rain.

"I wouldn't say _shining_." Sherlock teased, smirking nonetheless as he mounted Harry, John behind him, pressed firmly into his back as he took up the reins.

"Uh, what are we going to do about that hair?" They both looked back at the locks still laying on the ground in heaps.

"We could always wind it around us." Sherlock said, aflutter at the prospect of finally getting the chance to cut it all off.

John wasn't exactly pleased about the idea, but figured it would have to do until they arrived at Mrs. Hudson's, a few miles to the west from here.

**Neanderthal**

The ride there was itchy at best. John was surprised by how quickly the fair hairs soaked in the rain water and made it feel like they were swimming, no doubt weighing down Harry more than they already were, and when Mrs. Hudson's little cottage came into view, John could have cried for joy, but he didn't. He merely sighed happily and roused Sherlock from his nap only to have John come scuttling out and bite his finger. He glared at the creature as he shoved off all the hair and leapt from the horse, catching Sherlock as he fell off gracelessly .

"Thank you, John. I hope you catching me won't become a habit." Sherlock had that damnable smirk back on his face and John just sighed, led them up to the house and knocked.

Mrs. Hudson had seen a lot of people in her day as an inn keeper (when she was still an inn keeper anyway), so a sopping wet John and companion/hedgehog really was nothing. It was the companion's _hair_ that surprised her.

"John, dear, look at you. You're soaking wet! It isn't decent. Come in, come in. Your friend, too." She politely stepped aside to allow them room to fit and pull all the hair in. "My, look at all this hair." She held it in her hands, gently stroking it and reveling in it's softness. A soft tingling feeling came into her fingers and hands that brought a smile to her lips.

"Tell me, why is your hair so long. It isn't decent for men, or anyone really, to have such long hair."

"Would you like to see a magic trick, Mrs. Hudson?" He asked her, a charming quality surrounding Sherlock John didn't know existed.

"Oh, I don't believe in magic, dear."

"Then let me make you into a believer." At this, Sherlock placed his hands over Mrs. Hudson's and he began to sing softly. At first, nothing happened, but then a soft orange glow covered first the lady's hands, then slowly crept up the rest of her body until she was completely enveloped in it.

When he was finished, he released a much younger looking Mrs. Hudson's hands, and spun her to face a mirror in the hallway. She thought it was the most amazing thing ever. John couldn't stop laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing had been.

"John, stop laughing." Sherlock reprimanded. John just kept giggling. Sherlock wasn't sure why, but whenever the shorter man began to so much as chortle, Sherlock's face began to spasm as it fought him for a smile, and a laugh.

"John, it isn't funny." He tried, but couldn't seem to add much sincerity while his voice was warped with giggles.

"Yes, Sherlock. It really is. No need to get stroppy. Now, let's get you a haircut before we all drown in your ginger locks."

Mrs. Hudson gives John her best scissors to use, knowing he'll need them. As John prepares to cut that first bit, he discovers a small bit of the hair buried deep in that is darker than the rest. Much darker. A brown, almost black, color. John snips off a piece beside it and watches in amazement as the newly cut piece changes color to match the original dark piece.

"Uh, Sherlock, did you know that-"

"My hair changes color when I cut it. Yes, I know. Dull. Continue removing this wretched mane." John nodded and did as he was told.

It took almost and hour and a half to cut all the hair off then cut it into an appropriate style so that Sherlock didn't look like a slob, and when John was finished, he dare say he did a damn good job. Now, with his hair a dark color in striking contrast to his pale skin, curling around his ears, and falling on to his forehead, Sherlock Holmes was a _very_ attractive man.

As Mrs. Hudson had pointed out.

Not John.

No.

"There, now you look a proper gentleman." She giggled, still toying with her renewed youth (and freshly restored C-cups). Occasionally coming out of her room in a nice dress that Sherlock would deduce from when it came, amazing the nice lady.

John mutters a kind word after every deduction and basically turns into a fan boy when Sherlock turns his deduction skills on him.

"How _do_ you do that?" John asks him later when all is silent, Mrs. Hudson tucked away in her bed, the two of them sharing the guest room, but not the bed. Lucky for them (as John had decided) there was a spare mattress in the closet that he laid on the floor. He heard some shuffling, the creak of the bed then his own mattress dipping as Sherlock settled in next to him.

"Uh, can I help you?" He smiled when he felt Sherlock curl into his side like a kitten.

"I've never slept next to another body before. I wanted to test if it assists sleeping habits, or ruins them. I'll have to analyze and sort the data in the morning." He murmurs, gently shouldering John as he tries to be closer still. "And to answer your question, I will merely say I had a lot of free time to do a bit experimenting and studying. I now know thirteen languages. Nearly fluent in them all." They lay in silence for a few moments, John almost falling asleep when he heard Sherlock clear his throat beside him.

"This is actually rather... nice. I thought that I wouldn't enjoy having such close contact with another body due to the already warm weather then adding the extra body heat, and perhaps even throwing in the emotion most people feel when they are discomfited, but I am actually enjoying myself." John chuckled and reached up to run a hand through the freshly cut locks.

"Most people usually do."

"I'm not most people, John." Was the sad response.

It was then that Sherlock remembered John the Hedgehog and the fact that he was buried in the hair when they threw it out, leading to the both of them outside in the freezing rain hunting down a tiny little sandy blonde, shivering, hopelessly lost critter who ended up cuddling in between the two men.

Mrs. Hudson gets the wrong idea the next morning.

"You know," Mrs. Hudson starts the next morning at breakfast, "I've never been to the capital. What's it like, Sherlock?" Both men look up at her quizzically.

"Beg your pardon?" John begins, confused.

"I've never been to the capital." Sherlock says at the same time.

"Oh, I just had thought with your complexion, height and a few other physical traits that you had. Most everyone in the capital has similar traits to yours. Almost like a whole new race up there, it is." She murmurs to herself as she collects the dirty plates. "When are you two heading out?"

"Right after Sherlock and I help tidy up and clean ourselves." John replies, pushing in the chairs, and handing the tablecloth to Sherlock to shake out on the veranda.

"Oh, you don't have to help me clean, dearies." She smiled, swatting John on the arm. "Thanks anyway. You two just go get cleaned up. I'm sure you have an adventure awaiting you." Sherlock seemed to perk up at the word adventure. It was going to be his first, after all, and he had only ever read about them in Story books Mycroft brought to him.

"You heard the lady, John. We have an adventure awaiting us!" He exclaimed before taking off down the hall to bathe. Mrs. Hudson chuckled.

"He sure likes to move, doesn't he?" She smiled fondly, like the two boys were her own energized sons.

"Yeah, well, he's been rather sheltered his whole life." John commented absently before heading out to saddle up, and take care of Harry. Fifteen minutes later Sherlock emerged from the bathing room, refreshed and with a manic look on his face. John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock merely ignored him.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is wonderful."

"What is, dear?"

"This completely normal amount of hair! John." He turned, snatching the book John had been reading out of his hands. "Quickly, help me find John. We must leave at once." He then left the small kitchen to the guest room to gather what little he had brought with him, leaving John to look for his tiny hedgehog counterpart.

Soon after, they found themselves once again atop Harriet, this time dry and saying their goodbyes to the lovely inn keeper. Harry was pleased with the lack of hair, and the tiny creature sitting on her head in between her ears making the cutest noises ever.

Sherlock and John fill the next couple of hours with not only talk about John's adventures, and Sherlock's experiments (which are rather frighteningly really. Sometimes Mycroft had brought him _legitimate dead bodies_), but also with a comfortable silence where Sherlock takes advantage of the close proximity and leans back into John who kind of just lets it happen because, come on, the guy has been void of human contact since who knows when? They go for two days without coming into contact with anyone, which is odd in John's opinion, and comforting in Sherlock's.

On the morning of the third day, shortly after awakening, Sherlock asks a question. One John had been contemplating since Mrs. Hudson's.

"John, you don't suppose I'm from the capital, do you?" John looks at his friend, looks at all his physical features and does a mental checklist.

"Yeah. In fact, for all I know you could easily be royalty." John smiled. "All the people of the capital have a tendency of being tall, dark-haired and fair skinned. Especially royalty. The one thing that definitely brings out the male royal family are their insanely high cheekbones. Like yours." John, without thinking about what he was doing, reached out and brushed a finger against Sherlock's own well defined face.

Later, John would deny the minor erection he may or may not have gotten when Sherlock's irises were swallowed whole by his dilating pupils as he went back to cooking their breakfast over the fire.


	2. John, It's Never Going To Work

**Oh, Lawd.**

**My precious darlings, I'm so sorry this is out so late. I couldn't get the boys to co-operate with me, and I had children thrust upon me (a babysitting job that starts at five a.m really kills)**

**This was meant to go about three different ways, all had porn times, but then I realized I never gave a proper heads up (and I remembered Irene Adler exists).**

**Thanks go out to the _marvelous_ **Mirith Griffin **for the reminding me of Mycroft's umbrella. Seriously, I forgot all about the possibilities with that thing, even if you don't see much of its power in this chapter.**

**Warning: Un-beta'd, mistakes a'hoy. Also, I know certain (one) quotes aren't quoted correctly, so if you're super fanatic about that kind of thing, you're warned.**

**Sherlock, I'm Trying to Be Heterosexual. Stop.**

Their peace lasted for a only a few more minutes when they were ambushed. Once they were properly seized John was able to recognize their leader as Gregory Lestrade, head of the notorious gang Scotland Yard. One of his minions, a dark-skinned slender thing, came up and pinched Sherlock's chin with her fingers.

"What odd eyes you have." She practically purrs before digging into his shirt and pulling out John. "What the- Freak." She spit before dropping the poor animal back into Sherlock's lap.

"Donovan." Lestrade barks, "What have I said about touching?" the woman named Donovan merely sneers before turning away and stalking to the back of the group, a rat faced man standing beside another woman whom he was clearly in intimate relation with judging by how close they stood and how she had an arm wrapped around his waist, watches her go, you could barely see the flinch in his entire being that clearly shouted "Let me follow!"

"Greg, what are you doing?" John snaps, eyes dancing with electricity, continuously darting from their attacker to Sherlock. "You know I don't have anything of value, and this guys about as valuable as a rock on the path." Sherlock's pride flares up at the insult, but the tiny terror that was now John sent such an furious look his way he kept quiet.

"John, I'm sorry, but it's routine to ransack any village we may pass and terrorize any poor somebody who crosses our path." Greg keeps his arms crossed as he nods his assent for a few of his cronies to plunder and pillage their singular bag, coming back into John and Sherlock's view holding Sherlock's bag.

"Boss, we've got ourselves _someone_ important here." He said holding up the crown John had originally nabbed from the Queen's chambers.

"Don't be absurd. I stole it fair and square. Take it." John spits. Sherlock watches as he shifts minutely. Was he preparing to fight? There's no way he could take all of them at once. There were at least ten of them. Sherlock figures he'd be able to test out his combat skills soon.

"John, is he who I think he is?"

"Drop it, Lestrade." John growls, a noise so unlike the John Sherlock has known that it set his every nerve ending on edge. This was no longer silly thief, nor tiny terror. This was something entirely different. Entirely _new_. Yes, this was a soldier of sorts.

"Tell me, Watson. Who. Is. He-" John's foot connects with the bottom of Lestrade's jaw with a sickening crunch, just as he reaches over and tugs Sherlock into a safety zone behind him by the wrist. Acting on pure instinct, the nine other people surrounding jump into action as their leader lay knocked out cold. Sherlock let himself be tugged along as John took down two others then thrown to the ground when John was sure he was far enough back. The tall man watches in fascination as the shorter man seemed to move flawlessly through the thugs until it was just him, Donovan and Anderson.

"C'mon, John. We used to be brothers." Anderson sneers, his rat-like face seemingly pointier, a bit of blood dripping from his eyebrow.

"Keywords "used to be", Anderson." John snarls as he lunges for the thin man, swiftly knocking the air out of him with a knee to the gut, and pinning him there, flipping Donovan over his shoulder as he hears a twig snap behind him, alerting him to her presence.

"Now you're nothing but dirt beneath my boot. All of you." He growled in Anderson's ear. "So you better stay the fuck away from me and Sherlock."

John sways the tiniest fraction of a bit as he stands, regaining his balance, striding over to collect his genius, horse, and hedgehog.

"Let's go." He mutters, dragging Sherlock by the bicep.

"That was brilliant, John!" Sherlock offers, hoping to calm the angry ex-something (clearly he had been trained, no one is just that good, yet stands as if he's receiving orders). John stops, and releases a long, strung out sigh. He lets go of Sherlock and rolls his shoulders a few times, attempting to relieve himself of the stress thrust upon him, if only for his companions' sakes. He takes a few deep breaths, and offers Sherlock an apologetic. tired smile.

"Sorry about that. Sometimes this little bit of my past comes barreling through and I need a moment to come back to the present." Sherlock smiles, and brushes past him, climbing atop Harriet.

"Oh, no worries. Let's just get going to the capital." John pauses to take a moment to just... _absorb_ the image of Sherlock on a horse, holding the reins, back ramrod straight, a determined look on his face-

"For God's sake, John, quit ogling me, and get on the horse." Sherlock huffs, flicking a stray curl out of his face.

"I'm not gay." John mutters as he nears the horse.

Once the odd quartet finally manages to set a pace without a tiny John pooing on Harriet's head, or a bigger John not thinking about Sherlock and certain assets of said man, they were well on their way to the capital city.

Naturally, though, Sherlock would want to explore every village, cottage and cave on the way there.

"But, _John_," it would always begin, "_Science_!" or "_... locked away in a tower_!" or John's personal favorite, "_John and Harriet need to rest_!", because hedgehogs are notorious for becoming exhausted just by sitting atop its thoroughbred's head.

They were staying at one particularly large city when _it _happened. Something John wasn't sure if he ever wanted to do or not again.

_It_ is running around a absurdly large city, chasing some villain beside Sherlock after assisting the local law in _finding_ him. Sherlock had had a field day messing around with barely-there clues, and hints, prodding the locals nearby. John just tried not to let himself get shot, and keep the maniac from getting killed/kidnapped/drugged/etc... Eventually Sherlock found a faint foot pattern or something (John honestly was only mildly paying attention due to the fact he was ready to fall over dead, tired as he was.)

"Looks like we can bump up your status from Consulting Pain-In-the-Arse to Consulting Detective." John comments that night as they lay in bed at a hotel, Sherlock happily snuggled against John's side not unlike every other night.

"John, I was never-"

"Yeah, I know. You were never labeled that, but surely you get the point I was trying to make." With an indignant huff, Sherlock rolls away to face the other side. "You and your bloody pride." John smiles, following his bed mate so he was pressing against his back, reaching a hand up to gently pull his fingers through the dark curls.

"John, you do realize that we are "cuddling", right?"

"Sherlock, I am not gay. Nor am I cuddling you. Now shut up and let me live in denial." Oops, had he said that last bit out loud? Apparently, if Sherlock's quiet laughter was anything to go by.

The next morning, the two prepare to leave when a young woman walks up to them, eyes red and puffy as if she's been crying for hours.

"Sherlock Holmes?" She looks between the two of them, unsure who she should be addressing. Sherlock sticks out a slender hand to take shake the young lady's.

"Yes? What is it?" She begins to visibly shake before throwing herself upon him, sobbing into his chest.

John stifles his giggles at the look of utter displeasure, and disgust on his friend's face.

"Oh, it's horrible. Just terrible!" Her voice muffled by the wool of Sherlock's coat. He places his hands on her shoulders, and gently begins to peel her away from himself.

"Ma'am, you're going to have to be more clear than that." He says, gently, still wary of anymore attacks. The lady sniffles a few times before dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief.

"Ugh, how embarrassing. I'm terribly sorry about my behaviour. It's just that I'm in such a state of distress." John is already by her side, nodding along and steering her towards the inn.

"Come on up stairs. We can talk inside." He soothes, taking her shaking hand in his for support. John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, sending him a look that clearly says _Well, c'mon, ya big git_.

Upstairs in their room, John prepares her a cup of tea to calm her nerves as Sherlock settles in across from her, preparing to hear a hopefully interesting case.

"Well, you see, I'm a maid-servant to a very wealthy lady, and it's truly her problem that I come to you with. I cannot reveal to you her true identity in case someone is listening to our conversation, but I do hope you are still willing to help us. You see, we have heard of you, Sherlock Holmes. We have heard how you traipse across the country solving cases like... like... like it's as easy as breathing for you."

Sherlock contemplates the woman silently, fingers steepled against his mouth, as John brings in tea for their visitor.

"I hope you don't mind it unsweetened. All the sugar is packed away."

"Oh, no, it's fine." The maid blushes, looking down as she reaches out a hand to accept the proffered beverage.

"I don't think I ever got your name." John sits beside her, smiling charmingly. "Mine's John Watson."

"Mary Morstan." She brushes a stray blond hair behind her ear.

"Liar." Sherlock's deep baritone startles the both of them.

"Excuse me?" Mary stutters.

"Liar." Sherlock says, much more conviction in his voice this time.

"Sherlock, please, if this woman says her name is Mary then-"

"But it isn't." Sherlock looks at John as if he had been expecting him to realize this as well. Sighing, he held out his hands for Mary's. Once she had placed them there, he began to pick about her fingers, examining each one carefully.

"You aren't even a servant. Your hands are too neat." His eyes squint at her head. "Your hair is well maintained, not to mention your distinct knowledge in grammar. So, who are you?"

Not-Mary's face was beet red with anger and embarrassment.

"I never- how could you have possibly known all that?" Not-Mary tore her hands away from Sherlock like he was a foul beast. John merely watched him with amazement.

"It isn't important. Just tell me who you _really_ are, and why you're here." Sherlock looked over as John bumped into him, obviously unaware he had been drifting closer to the other if you were to go by the look of surprise of being so close to Sherlock.

"I am Lady Branum, the fiancée of Prince Victor." Her entire being had shifted with this confession. Gone were the tears, gone was the shaking. Instead, here sat a posh woman with a fiery attitude, and a severe want to punch Sherlock. "I have come to you today because of a rather idiotic mistake I made while out with the ladies celebrating the engagement." She shifted in her seat, flattening the wrinkles from her borrowed servants' clothes. "I had discovered the – _services_ of one Miss Irene Adler." A faint blush coloured her cheeks. "Regrettably, that vicious woman had photographic evidence, and is threatening to show them to Victor the night before our wedding." Lady Branum let out a small cough. "Unfortunately, nothing I have offered her will change her mind, nor has she asked for anything, leaving me in a bind."

The room was silent, the inhabitants soaking in the information before being interrupted with-

"Alright. I'll see what I can do." Sherlock stands and heads to the door. "Until then, my lady, you should probably return to wherever you are staying." He bows as he opens the door for her. "And you, John, should tell the good inn keeper we'll be needing this room for at least two more nights."

Sighing, John stands up, ignoring the creak in his bones, reminding him of just how old he's getting, and makes his way down to the front desk.

"Hello." He greeted, already counting coins for the next two nights' fee.

"Hi." He was greeted cheerfully by the teller. "My name's James, but my friends call me Jimbo, and I'll be serving you tonight." John let out a huff of a laugh.  
"Uh, okay. My friend, and I will be needing our room for the next two nights." He said, passing the small stack of gold coins over the counter.

"Sorry if I'm a little enthusiastic." James ducked his head shyly. "It's my first night on the job." John offered a reassuring smile.

"I think you're doing fine, lad. Have a nice day." He waved before turning to ascend the stairs to their room.

"Wait!" John turned at the top step, James standing at the bottom, looking embarrassed for his outburst. "Can, uh, can you come back down so I can ask you, erm, a question?" John, sceptical, slowly descended

"Yeah?" James twirled his washcloth nervously between his hands.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks tomorrow. After my shift at eight?" John was completely taken aback.

"James, I'm not- erm that is-" he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not gay, James." He looked up at the poor guy, clearly not knowing how to handle the rejection. "But, as friends, I suppose, we could go out for a pint." John tried to reassure him. That seemed to do the trick, for Jim was back to his perky self. He muttered a thanks before dashing back behind the countertop. John chuckled at his exuberance, remembering his younger days of chasing tail. Though, it definitely had been with more courage.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked from his bed in the corner, staring at the ceiling. He had been thinking then.

"Uh, I think I made a friend of the teller." He huffed. "He was... adamant we make plans for tomorrow night. Going out for drinks after," he twirled his hand in the air, as if he could suddenly grab hold of the words he needed, "whatever it is we do tomorrow."

"What?" Sherlock opened one eye, glancing over at John out of his peripheral. "What about me?"

"What about you?" John sat down heavily into a chair in the "kitchen", if you could call it that, and began to examine the crown he had forgotten about.

"Well, what am I supposed to do while you're out?" Sherlock sat up now, agitated. "It's not like I've grown up in society, and know how to "go out"."

"Sherlock, you've been out of your tower for long enough now that I think you can handle socializing, even if it's just downstairs in the sitting room with other tenants." They both fell quiet, Sherlock sulking, when John had a realization. "This could be your mother's. I did steal this from the capitol after all." John tossed it on the table, and wandered over to his bed, throwing himself on it. Sherlock was still sulking, curled up into a ball facing away from John. Usually when this happened, hedgehog-John was skittering all over Sherlock's face, trying to cheer him up.

"Where's John?" John sat back up, looking about the room. "I haven't seen him all day." He made his way to the door, throwing his jacket on. "I'm going to check if he's down in the stables with Harry." Sherlock looked over his shoulder as he heard the door shut, then opening his hands, John stuck his tiny head out.

"Well, that went well." Now Sherlock had a least twenty more minutes to think in silence like he was used to in his tower.

Down in the stables, John was checking all the empty stalls and barrels of hay for the horses, his search for the critter proving fruitless as time progressed. He was just preparing to leave the stalls, when a figure emerged dramatically from the side, pulling him into a sealed off stall and locking the door. He turned to his attacker, ready to lash out, but the feel of something buzzing, and sharp pressed against his chest directly above his heart stopped him.

"You've fallen far, Doctor Watson." He gasped, a pain, not due to the weapon pressed against him, bloomed in his chest. He felt the pressure remove, thte sof sound of fabric ruffling before he was bathed in a dull blue light. Looking up, he found an umbrella hovering between himself and another man, taller, the light coming form the umbrella.

Huh.

"Don't even think about screaming, Anthea has this room sound proofed." the man warned, tapping the handle lightly, causing the umbrella's light to shine a bit brighter. "Much better."

"I wouldn't scr- I don't _scream._" Perfect. Manliness defended. "But, that's beside the point. You called me _Doctor Watson_. And who the hell is 'Anthea'?"

"My umbrella of course, and, well, yes. I did call you Doctor Watson." The stranger seemed bemused that John was questioning this. "That is who you are, after all." John shook his head.

"I haven't been 'Doctor Watson' in a very long time." He corrected the man, miffed that he had brought up his past.

"My apologies, then, _John_." He made a big spectacle of being less formal.

"Who are you anyway?" this man was slowly starting to get on John's nerves, what with him knowing so much about John, and John knowing nothing of him.

"My name is not important. What _is_ important, however, is how Sherlock is." John was nearly knocked over in surprise. Of all the things...

"Wait, you're that witch that's kept him prisoner all his life." John was back up again, clearly regaining the use of his legs as he marched the short way forward to jab the witch in the chest. Probably not the safest thing to do, now that he thinks about it. He sighed.

"Yes, I am. Now would you please remove yourself from my personal space. It's already quite claustrophobic in here without us breathing the same air." the umbrella dipped down some to nudge John away.

"Well, you're not getting him back. Not under my watch." John crossed his arms, glaring at the taller man.

"Oh, heavens no. You can keep him." He said, as if the idea of even _wanting_ Sherlock back was laughable. "It's about time he went home. I'm not my young, foolish, greedy younger self anymore, and I do regret taking him from his crib all those years ago. I do, however, wonder what he is to you for you to be so loyal so very quickly."

"Uh, I do believe that's none of your business, yes?" John snapped.

"Oh, but it is my business, Doctor." John bristled.

"What do you want?" He snapped, ready to just go back up to the room and sleep. In his own bed. _By himself_.

"I want you to report to me what Sherlock is up to. Nothing personal, nothing you would feel bad about telling me."

"You want me to spy on him?"

"I'd pay you, of course. I'm sure that a thief's salary is a small one."

"One minute I'm a doctor, the next I'm a thief, huh?" John raised his eyebrows, and the man sighed irritably.

"Are you going to or not, Mr. Watson?" John hummed and spun on his heel, facing the door.

"No. Now, I would like to get some sleep if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, by all means." He gestured to the door as it swung open. "Goodnight, John. Do take care of young Sherlock, please." John waved his hand as an affirmative before striding out of the stables, and into the rain.

Up in the room, only the candle by John's bed was lit, Sherlock was sleeping in his own with a furry John curled up next to his face. He glared at the duo, figuring out Sherlock's little heist almost immediately. He shed his layers until he was down to his underwear, and crawled into his bed, grateful for finally being able to rest, sighing rather contentedly, feeling the stress vacate his body as sleep overtook him.

He was nearly completely out, when he felt the bed dip, and a warm body press against his back, an arm coming round to pull him closer and trap him there.

"Sherlock, g'way." He grunted, attempting to escape. The only response he received was to be pulled closer, and to have four tiny paws step on his face before settling in the crook of his neck. So much for sleeping by himself.

… **This is becoming way longer than originally intended. I was thinking maybe, _maybe_ three chapters. Now I have no idea how long this will go for...**

**Anyway, please leave a review. Not sure when the next update will be, but hopefully faster than this one (_I must be swift as a coursing river, with all the strength of a great typhooooon_). Already have the next chapter started.**

**Major thanks go out to Mirith Griffin, Wolf Princess girl, JustBeAQueen, and earthhitchhiker for the reviews, They made me all fuzzy and warm inside. C:**

**Thank you to everyone who favorited and alerted as well, and, yes, thank you so, so much for reading.**

**~Ariela**


	3. In Which John Hides Under Things

**lol I give up on giving myself limits. Shit always comes up. **

**I also blame my suddenly vibrant social life I never knew existed...**

**I tried to focus, I really did**

**And yet... this did not go where I wanted it to.**

**Somehow heterosexual relationships surface, though the main point of me writing this was to amuse myself with _homo_sexual relationships... Not that the gay times won't be resumed, but Irene has this power to completely throw me off... I hate her character. Why did I tell myself bringing her in would be fun? She took the boys from me , and fucking _ran_.**

**Disclaimer: I own no one in this lovely fic, except Rachel. She's my baby. I hold her close to my bosom when Irene isn't using her and breaking her lovely heart.**

**Warning: not beta-ed, so, once again, all mistakes are mine**

The following morning brought Lady Branum to their room bright an early, the sun just barely lighting up the city.

"I was hoping you two would start as soon as you could." She told them. "Especially since my marriage is in two days time."

"Two days is more than enough. Trust me." Sherlock reassured her as John bustled about the room, once again searching for John (who was genuinely lost this time).

"Well, in that case, I'd best be off. I only stopped by to make sure you were on the case." Sherlock stood and offered her her jacket, slipping it on over her slender shoulders. _No trust then_. Sherlock mentally noted while the Lady stiffly left the two men to return to wherever she came from.

"John, quit pawing around for him. He'll come out of hiding soon enough. We must be going." Sherlock stood and reached for his coat.

"But he hasn't been fed yet, and I don't want him starving until we get back." Sherlock watched him crawl around under the beds for a moment, contemplating.

"For a soldier-turned-thief, you are rather domestic, and caring." John froze, ass in the air, head and shoulders ducked under the bed to try to reach John hidden away in the dust in the corner of the bed. It was rather comical if you didn't count the tension oozing from him. Sherlock smiled anyway.

"Let's be off, shall we?" Reaching down, he gripped John's ankles tight, and pulled him out with one swift movement. John was glaring at him as Sherlock bent down to wipe away little dust bunnies sticking to his hair and eyebrows.

"Throw your fit later. We have a case to solve."

"John," Sherlock began as they stepped into the pale dawn light. "Tell me, where have you seen this specific type of parchment before?" Sherlock handed a rich cream coloured envelope to John. "Before you ask, and I know you want to, I snatched it off her persons this morning when she came to us. She was keeping something from us so a did a quick, yet thorough check of her jacket pockets as I put it on her."

"You're the devil." John joked, running his hand along the paper and opening it, removing two pictures before barking out a laugh.

"I don't recognize the envelope, no, but I do recognize the woman in these pictures." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, clearly finding humour in the fact that John would know a woman with her specific expertise. "Oh, don't give me that look. I've never been to see her. She's just a well-known criminal." John tucked the photos back into the pouch. "Not that you'd be able to tell by _those_." Both eyebrows rose to a sandy hairline. Inside the creamy package were some rather revealing photos of a beautiful brunette woman, scantily clad, straddling another blond woman, a riding crop between her teeth. John felt a tad uncomfortable looking at them.

"They call her 'The Woman'. She's got quite the rep for getting what she wants." John chuckles, passing the envelope back to his friend.

"Where can we find her?" Sherlock was eyeing the town square where a small band could be heard.

"Now? I'd say maybe here in this city actually." He seemed thoughtful. "Probably not for long though, considering that poor woman's predicament." Sherlock 'hmm'ed his affirmative, seeming captivated by the beautiful sounds coming from a small corner where a string quartet was playing, the stall beside them selling a variety of string instruments.

"I want one." He suddenly said, knocking John out of his concentration on how to best seduce the cute cellist.

"Sorry what?" John's head snapped 'round to look at Sherlock.

"I detest repetition, John." He sighed, pointing to one of the band members. "I want one."

"One what, Sherlock?" John tried to figure out which instrument Sherlock was pointing out, but they were all packed together. Sherlock walked over to the stall and picked up the particular instrument he wanted.

"This." Sherlock lifted the wood to mimic the instrumentalist's posture, resting the end under his chin.

"A violin." John informed him, running his hand along the smooth wooden body.

"How much money do we have?" Sherlock pulled the violin away from his chin, resting it back on the counter next to its bow

"What are you going to do with a violin you don't even know how to play?" John said, counting their coins nonetheless.

"I can learn." Sherlock countered, indignant.

"Of course, of course. We have about fifty gold pieces. How much is the violin?" The question was directed at the shop keep.

"120 gold pieces."

"One hundred and- Sherlock, you don't need a bloody violin. Let's go." John grabbed Sherlock's wrist, and marched them way the hell away from that stall. "If you're royalty like we think you are, we'll get you as many violins as you please, until then our money goes to food and shelter." Oddly enough, that was the first time Sherlock had even slightly _hoped_ he was royalty.

He was determined to master such an elegant instrument. He had no reasoning behind this strange need, which made it all that much more exciting. He wished he had time to at least _pluck_ the strings before John rushed them away like the answer to the case was waiting for them on the other side of the square.

Wait a second.

"John." He tugged John to a stop, aiming him in the direction he wanted him to look. Standing at a stall full of expensive looking silks and cottons, stood one Irene Adler fingering the darker silks, her assistant (as Sherlock helpfully pointed out) nearby, weighing and measuring. She looked over her shoulder, caught their eyes and _smirked_. She knew!

She sauntered to her assistant, saying something along the lines of a departure, for the blond nodded and pulled out a purse, paying for the cloth. Sherlock took off at a run for them, John following close behind.

"Oh!" The assistant was surprised when she was suddenly scooped off her feet, a wagon crashing through the streets where she had just been standing. She glanced over her rescuer's shoulder to see her employer was safe, wrapped up in a tall handsome man's arms. Her own hero wasn't too bad on the eyes either.

"You okay, miss?" She looked back at the blonde man as he set her down.

"Yes, thank you, Mr..."

"Watson. John Watson." He gave her a warm smile and held out his hand.

"Rachel Williams." She took his hand in hers, watching Ms. Adler chat up the other stranger in her peripheral. "Thank you for saving us, but my employer and I must be going." She clutched her bag of cloths to her chest, looking at Ms. Adler for the go ahead, but was surprised to find her missing.

"Huh, she must've gone on ahead. I can help you carry those if you'd like?" He held out his hands in offering, ever the gentleman, Rachel regarding him carefully before sighing and letting up.

"I guess since you're here you may as well escort me home."  
"Of course. It is dangerous, after all, for a young lady as pretty as yourself to be wandering this huge city by yourself." He tucked the bag under one arm and offered the free one out to Rachel, which she wrapped a small hand around, before they set off together.

They arrived back at Ms. Adler's manor rather quickly, the easy conversation the pair had making it seem that much sooner. Admittedly, Rachel did feel quite attracted to the simple, easy-going man that was John Watson, but at the same time felt as though she was betraying Ms. Adler for wanting to pursue anything with him. Especially since the main reason was because she just wanted a small dose of normal in her usually unique routine. Being the secretary for someone who was basically an expensive private whore was more stressful than one would think.

"Would you like to stay for lunch? I'm not sure when Ms. Adler will return, but it'd be best to prepare her something for when she does." Rachel commented, leading John through the hallways and into a nearly invisible door, which in turn led to the kitchens.

"Yes, that would be lovely." He set the bag on the counter nearest him before settling on a stool by a small island where Rachel had placed a fresh cup of tea (how had she boiled the water so quickly?).

"I think I'll just make some finger sandwiches, if you don't mind?" Her head was in the fridge, one hand picking through the different meats, and vegetables.

"Oh, no, of course not. You are the hostess after all." He was smiling charmingly at her again, causing a pink tint to rise in her cheeks. She wasn't necessarily ugly, but it wasn't usually she who was getting looks like that from men. No, that was Ms. Adler. Very rarely did a man take interest in Rachel instead, and those were only ever times she was no where near The Woman.

"Well, a good hostess wouldn't want her guest to have to suffer through a terrible lunch." She teased, preparing the sandwiches on the same island John occupied. The next ten minutes or so were filled with mindless banter, and John attempting to steal a few pieces of stray meat or pickles.

Sometime around two, much after John and Rachel had finished lunch, and had merely begun casual conversation about their lives (_"You wouldn't believe the cliental this woman gets." "Did he really do that? In a cave? He does know the ceiling could've come down, right?" "She actually can _do that_? I thought it was a myth." "No one is seriously that flexible... are they?" "I've got photographic evidence."_) their other halves came floating in, both basically suffocating the other two with their egos.

"Oh, John, I see you and Rachel have had a nice time." John looked down at their linked arms, nodding.  
"Yeah, surprisingly two sidekicks have a lot in common." He joked, Rachel's bell-like giggle behind him.

"I'm glad you kids had fun today. Sherly and I sure did." John suddenly felt something in him freeze over and harden at her tone. At what she was _implying_. "Well, we've got things to discuss. Ta, kiddies." and then they were gone, out the door again. This time to a sitting room. _Or a bedroom_. John's mind supplied, rather discomposedly.

"You're friend sure is handsome." Rachel said, clearing the counter. John leapt up to help.

"It's no wonder Ms. Adler has taken to him." She seemed bittersweet. Sort of how John felt.

"And it's no wonder Sherlock likes her. She seems sharp." That got a laugh out of his companion.

"As a freshly filed knife. I've been on the receiving end of her cuts, the ones with words, mind you, and it's never any easier than the first time."

"I know all about that. Sometimes I manage to make Sherlock so enraged with me by my pure "stupidity" alone, he rattles off all sorts of hurtful things."

"That can't be very often then, since you're clearly not that stupid of a man." Rachel countered, leaning into John's side as they washed the dirty silverware and dishes.

"Rachel," John looked over at her, she really was quite beautiful. "Would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow? I know I have to leave the day after, but just to spend one night with someone as beautiful as you would be enough." Yeah. That right there is John "Three Kingdoms" Watson right there. The smoothest of the smooth. More charming than a prince.

"I would love to..." She bit her lip, glancing at the door that led out to her employer and his friend.

"But you have other commitments." John sighed. "That's alright. I'm sure we'll see each other again, if those two stay chummy." The thought made his stomach churn, but he didn't have much time to settle on it, however, due to Rachel pressing her lips against his. A soft, but insistent pressure. A thank you kiss.

"It was lovely to have been able to spend the afternoon with you, John." She said. "But I should probably go and see if Ms. Adler would like lunch." John nodded, before leaning in to kiss her once more.

"I should go see if Sherlock needs any help in his current case."

The sight the two walked into was, well, interesting. Sherlock, having recently discovered he had a sex drive, was quite happily caught in a compromising position with Irene who didn't even look remotely flustered like the situation would usually call for.

"Well, clearly we caught them at a bad time." John pointed out, just for anything to say, as they shut the door

"Shall we return to the kitchen?" Rachel, used to this, was handling this much better. As if Sherlock and Irene were merely having tea, not sex. John nodded, unable to get words out past the weird knot in his throat. Afraid if he opened his mouth he'd get sick all over their nice rug,

Later that evening found John back at the hotel, having even had a light dinner with Rachel before telling her he needed to leave for prearranged plans, but that he'd probably be back, and gave her a warm parting kiss, hoping to lift the heavy feeling in his gut. He was currently on his knees again, trying to coax John out from under the dresser this time for food.

"C'mon, please? I don't want Sherlock biting my head off because I let you starve to death." He let his head fall to his chest, ready to give up.

"John!" Jesus! John jumped up, nearly hitting the dresser in front of him, not hearing Sherlock come up the stairs. "Tomorrow is when we strike." John looked up and found Sherlock looming over him, a very large love bite just above the collar of his shirt.

"What are you going on about?" His mood suddenly gone sour, John didn't want to deal with Sherlock right now.

"Tomorrow we get the photos back." Sherlock was absolutely ecstatic. Clearly, he had a brilliant plan in mind he couldn't wait to share.

"Oh, so you haven't forgotten about the client?" John snapped, scooping up John as he finally scurried out of his hiding place, petting his head as he settled on his shoulder.

"What? Of course not." Sherlock scoffed.

"Could've had me fooled." John moved to set John down on his pillow. "I'm going out. Don't expect me back too early. I have drinks with James tonight, remember?"

"Wait, we still haven't figured out what I'm to do in this time! Besides, you're three hours early."

"Why don't you go visit Irene. Fuckings a grand way to pass the time, I hear." and with those words hanging in the air, John threw on his jacket and stormed down the stairs.

James was waiting downstairs behind the counter, like John expected him to be.

"Hey, John. I won't be able to get off until later." He smiled warmly, cheeks tainted pink. "I do find it flattering though. That you're so excited to have drinks with me."

"I know you still have quite a bit of time. I just needed to get some air and away from my room mate." He pulled a chair over from a nearby table, sitting by the counter, but not in the way of any future patrons. "Tell me about your day, Jim."

So for the next three hours they sat, talking about nothing. John thought it was nice to socialize with people _not_ Sherlock for once.

"And then he just bursts into the room all chipper with that- that- _hickey _from that devil woman's mouth just fucking _shouting_ "_Look at me, John! Sherlock had sex with someone! Haha!_" This conversation began after a couple of rounds. Jim found the repressed sexual feelings _remarkable_.

"I think you should just burn her house down." He supplied with a shrug. John actually seemed to contemplate this.

"... As long as neither inhabitant was harmed, I think I will." Jim burst into laughter.

"Even piss-drunk you're still quite the humanitarian, John Watson." Jim took another large gulp, leaning against John's side heavily.

"I think it's time we headed back... "headed"? Whatever." John stood, impressively, only swaying a fraction. "As your superior, it is my duty to return you home safely, ma'am."

"You came here with me, John. Not her." Jim stifled his giggles as he gestured towards a busty babe in the corner.

"Oh.. Sir." Once he had cleared up his mistake, he offered his hand to help Jim up, which Jim took happily, of course.

"Now, where do you live?" John stood up straighter, holding out his arm as if _Jim_ was the one who needed to be steadied.

"Just around the corner." Jim looped one hand through his arm and began to direct them towards his home.

Once they arrived, after many drunk stumblings, John bowed low, ever the gentleman.

"What? I don't get a good night's kiss?" Jim joked. John thought for a moment, before grinning, stepping up, and kissing him on the nose.

"That'll have to do. Especially since, well, I'm not gay." He looked around as if preparing to tell a deep secret, "In fact, lately I'm beginning to think I'm _Sherlock_sexual." John seemed all too pleased with his broken reasoning. Jim agreed in fun, before waving John off.

"John? Good. I was wondering when you'd return." Sherlock was sat in the middle of the room on the floor, reading something or another. John couldn't be bothered to care as he wobbled over, dropping himself into Sherlock's lap and nuzzling his neck.

"John, what are you-mmfph." Sherlock frowned as John covered his mouth with his hands.

"Shh, Sherlock. Sleepy time." John let his hand fall back into his lap, settling in to sleep right where he sat.

"John, if you're going to sleep, use the perfectly good bed right over there."

"Carry me. Too tired to walk." He mumbled from Sherlock's neck. Sighing, Sherlock set the book down before shifting his arms a bit, shooting upwards quickly, and dropping John on to the bed, covering him with the blankets set to the side from last night.

"Hurry up, and come to bed." John sighed, now snuggling the pillow. Sherlock stared at the dosing creature before him.

Just several hours ago he had been livid. Now, here he was, wanting nothing more than to cuddle and sleep. Hesitantly, and with a couple of jerky stops on his way down, Sherlock leant over and planted a kiss where John's short bangs met his forehead. John remained sleeping, but only for a moment before his eyes flew open and his head shot over the edge of his bed as he threw up the contents of the night all over Sherlock's bare feet.

Well that certainly woke him up.

"Oh my- Sherlock, I am _so_, so, so very sorry!" John shot out of bed and for the wash bin, quickly bringing it to him and immediately falling to his knees, still muttering apologies. Sherlock merely stood, and stared. Had he done it wrong? Perhaps John was sensitive to that spot on his head, and it had triggered his gag reflex and he had vomited-

No. No, no, no. That made no sense what so ever. Perhaps John was becoming ill.

"Perhaps we should sleep in separate beds tonight in case I do that again." That caught Sherlock's attention. He rather enjoyed their sleeping situation. He stayed warm at night, and John was squishy.

"No."  
"Excuse me?"

"No." Sherlock rolled his eyes, took the wash bin from him and dumped it out the window. "You'll be fine sharing a bed with me. If you get sick again, you can empty your stomach into this." He set it on the floor on John's side.

"... Fine. But no complaining if I get sick on you on accident." John warned, stripping out of his soiled clothes, and stepping into bed. "Now, I'm going back to bed. Try not to leave the candle on all night." And with a ruffle of the sheets, John was facing the edge of the bed, therefore away from Sherlock, and was back to attempting sleep. Sherlock stripped out of his clothing, blew out the candle, and spooned right up against John's back. He felt John shift minutely, sigh, then settle again, going silent. Sherlock thought back to earlier that day with Irene. How _close_ and _intimate_ they had been. When Sherlock had seen John after returning to the hotel room, he had begun to wonder how it would feel if he tried the same things with John.

He thought back to the little kiss he had given him, that had given him a pleasant flutter in his abdominal region. John had been a warm, and welcome accessory to his lap, even if he did block his view from the text he had been studying. He certainly hadn't enjoyed John being angry with him, for whatever reason that had been.

Would he feel all these little things with Irene? He certainly had felt a fire build up inside of him at the sight of her naked body, but when she touched him, he certainly hadn't felt any flutters of joy like he does with John. Just the basic carnal need and desire burning inside him.

Quite frankly, he can't tell which one he prefers. It makes him a little sick to think about, so he shoves it into the recesses of his mind, and sleeps.

Sherlock wakes up in the early hours of dawn to discover the bed empty. Sitting up, he finds John had moved to the other bed throughout the night. Probably still worried about throwing up again. Sherlock decided it was early enough to dress himself, and visit Irene. A little morning conversation wouldn't hurt? On the plus side, if she's still sleeping, he can retrieve the photos.

Just as he was shrugging on his jacket, he heard the rustling of sheets as John sat up, now awake.

"Oh, Sherlock. Already up I see. I hope you didn't mind me switching beds. It was just a little too warm."

"Good morning, John. I was just about to head out for Irene's. See if I can find those photos." Sherlock turned at John's "Oh." Well, that sounded pitiful.

"If you're still feeling ill, I can stay back and keep you company." John was shrugging on a long sleeve shirt, pants already on, though left undone. Sherlock shoved the small pull he felt towards his companion away, replacing it with the rational worry he _should_ have felt first and foremost.

"No... No, you go on ahead if you'd like. I planned on taking a scenic walk around the city today." He was now tying the strings of his pants up, walking towards the kitchen. "Unless you wanted to join me? I could wait until later."

"No, thank you. We have plans later. I will need you there with me, so you should go and enjoy yourself." Sherlock smiled brightly at John before leaving the room.

So John did. He spent the entire afternoon wandering around the rather large city. He's willing to admit he'll miss it here. Perhaps once he returns Sherlock he can come live here. Surely Sherlock won't want him with him after he returns home. John isn't sure he could handle seeing the royal family anyway, not after all that had happened three years ago. He sighed, barely able to believe it had been three years since he was removed from the royal court, then sent into exile for something he hadn't done.

At Irene's, Sherlock is only half paying attention to what she is saying, his thoughts leaning to a more John-based subject. Maybe he should have taken up John's offer to go for a walk. That certainly would have helped clear his mind, rather than sitting with this chatty woman.  
"Well, what's got your panties in a twist?" He looked back at Irene's smirking face. "Don't look at me like that. You've been sulking all morning." She sighed, uncrossing her legs and walking across the small space to land herself in his lap. For all that he seemed to care, it was as if someone threw a sick puppy at him. A disgusting sick puppy.

"It's not dear John, is it? Did you two end up fighting?" She spoke to him as if he were a wounded child. When Sherlock didn't answer, but merely looked away, a blush creeping on to his cheeks, Irene smirked, able to figure it out.

"No, but something has changed, hasn't it?" She leaned to whisper in his ear, "Does Sherly have a crush on John?" She teased. Having enough, Sherlock moved to remove her from his lap, but she held on tight.

"You do, don't you? But you're too scared to admit it. Why?"

"What does it matter?" He snapped. Emotions were clearly proving to not be his thing.

"I'm with you right now, and that should be all that matters." His hands lifted to grip her hips. "Besides, it's not like John is willing to return any sort of desire I _may_ or _may not_ feel for him." He bit her collar bone, brushing aside her robe easily. "While you seem very obviously willing."


End file.
